


Now That I See You

by ProneToRelapse



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Falling In Love, Fluff, I cried writing this, M/M, Soft Boys, i love these boys so much, just a horrendous amount of fluff really, like an unreasonable amount
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-17
Updated: 2018-07-17
Packaged: 2019-06-11 23:56:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15327231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProneToRelapse/pseuds/ProneToRelapse
Summary: It's a slow realisation. And it's perfect.





	Now That I See You

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [遇见你之后 A translation of Now That I See You by ProneToRelapse](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15476787) by [sherrystoneage](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherrystoneage/pseuds/sherrystoneage)



> inspired by my soft hankcon ramblings on twitter @gayandfae

Everything slows after the revolution.  

 

The whirlwind of panicked activity and desperation that swept up everything in its path over the past month has died down, quietened into a gentle breeze that ripples through the frozen streets of Detroit like a sigh. It takes a long while for the evacuation to be lifted, and even longer for the humans to slowly start returning to their homes. Slowly but surely, life begins again, resuming its previous inexorable flow.  

 

Hank experiences life pass for the first time in a long while as an active participant rather than an isolated observer. When the flow begins again, Hank is part of it, not watching coldly from the banks. He lets himself get swept up in the steady current, letting it guide him along once more.  

 

He’s living now. Not just existing. He’s not sure when that changed, only that it has, and he’s glad of it.  

 

For every move he makes, Connor is there moving with him. They stand side by side as Markus reclaims CyberLife, seizing the means of production for their kind. They bow their heads modestly as humans and androids alike thank them for their part in the revolution. They smile together in gratitude as Fowler hands Connor a freshly engraved badge etched with his own identifying number, and returns Hank’s to him.  

 

Everything they do now is together. Hank wouldn’t have it any other way.  

 

House becomes home again slowly. The blinds are drawn every day to let the light back in, windows flung wide as spring creeps in to let out the old, oppressive air and welcome the fresh and new. The yard is gradually pruned from an untamed mess into something small and sweet, wildflowers lining the fences, a small sapling in the center planted for the memory of a small boy with the sweetest smile. Hank likes looking at it from the kitchen window when the mornings are light again. Sometimes he sees butterflies dancing above the flowers and it calms him.  

 

There is never more than one bottle of whiskey in the cupboards at a time now. A six pack of beers lasts a week and not a night. The salad crisper in the fridge is full of fresh produce and not expired jars and month old cucumbers. There’s always a wide selection to choose from, and Hank rediscovers his joy of cooking the first time Connor applauds the way he skilfully flips pancakes.  

 

Connor is hopeless at cooking. It’s almost endearing, really.  

 

Hank doesn’t know what prompts him to change the answerphone message on the house phone, only that he enjoys Connor’s reaction immensely the first time he hears it.  

 

_You’ve reached Hank, Connor_ _,_ _and Sumo. Leave a message and Connor will get back to you. I won’t._  

 

The way his LED spins and his lips part slightly as he listens, both to the receiving message and the invite from Chris to go out for drinks the following Friday. The invitation extends to both of them and Connor’s small smile is the softest thing Hank has ever seen.  

 

More pleasing is the way Connor makes his own life matter. He’s an exceptional officer, prototype intelligence aside. He’s calm and level-headed, and his newfound empathy hasn’t yet been hardened by years of exposure to the worst of humanity. He is unfailingly compassionate when dealing with witnesses and victims in a way that Hank is no longer able to be. They make a perfect team, a scale equally balanced between Hank’s instinct and Connor’s intellect.  

 

Outside of work Connor has his own friends. North, Markus, Simon and Josh have become frequent visitors, sometimes individually, sometimes all at once. Hank is fond of the lot of them but harbours a secret favouritism for North. The feeling is mutual in the way she teases him; the same, biting remarks friends shoot back and forth when they’re young and careless. It’s refreshing and nostalgic all at once.  

 

Connor is by Hank's side when they visit Cole's grave for the first time it isn't the anniversary of the crash. Instead of the frigid October cold, it's a warm day mid-spring, and Connor is the one to lay a bouquet of flowers on front of the tiny headstone along with a small toy robot he'd chosen. Hank watches with tear-filled eyes as Connor lays a palm on the marble of the gravestone, skin bleeding away so it's just his bare chassis against the cold stone surface. He murmurs something soft that Hank doesn't hear and only smiles and shakes his head when Hank asks him what he says.

 

"Just a promise," Connor tells him. Back home, there's an old photo of four-year-old Cole in a younger Hank's arms sitting on the shelf in the living room. The frame is brand new. Connor wipes away the fresh tears on Hank's cheeks.

 

Nightmares become a thing of the past. When they do creep up on only the most difficult of days, forcing Hank into startled consciousness, Connor is always unfailingly there, LED calm blue in the darkness, arms tight around him as he gasps and tries to shake the shadows away. He never questions him, never pushes for an explanation, only holds onto him like his arms are the only things keeping Hank from falling apart. Some nights that rings truer than others, but Hank doesn’t shy away, just lets himself be comforted. Sometimes he’ll talk about it, sometimes he won’t. Either way, Connor listens.  

 

He has a side of the bed now. Hank doesn’t mind at all.  

 

The first time Connor is badly injured on a case, Hank is frantic. He meets Markus in the reception of CyberLife with wide eyes and shaking hands, only calming when Markus places a firm hand on his shoulder. He explains the procedures slowly and simply all the while leading Hank towards the workshop Connor has been taken to. Hank’s thundering heart slows to a more even rate once they’re inside and Connor is bare of his skin, arguing with a technician about the correct way to reattach his own leg. The relief is heady, as is the bright smile Connor gives Hank when he notices him, slapping the technician’s hand away as she advances with a wrench.  

 

Hank quietly asks Markus to deliver as many RK800 compatible parts as he can fit in the garage. Markus agrees with a smile.  

 

Hank reads the RK800 handbook cover to cover. He memorises it, studies it, highlights it like a revising student. And the next time Connor is injured, a crack right through his shin plating that rips through his synthetic muscle, Hank brings him home instead of to CyberLife.  

 

Sat on the sofa, Connor watches with wide eyes as Hank removes the broken leg component, then stares with even wider eyes as Hank fetches a brand new replacement, kneeling to slot it into place with ever careful hands, practiced and sure. The expression on Connor’s face is priceless. So priceless that Hank has to take a photo on his cell.  

 

His background is a photo he remembers taking vividly. Connor kneeling on the floor with his arms around Sumo while the dog licks his face. He doesn’t remember what made him change it, but every time he unlocks his phone he smiles.  

 

Weekends become theirs and theirs alone. The weekdays are full of case files and paperwork, of murders and stress. The weekends are filled with slow walks with Sumo, impromptu shopping trips to fill Connor’s side of the wardrobe, and quiet evenings in front of the television. Connor soaks up Hank’s secret love of shitty police procedural dramas. He develops his own tastes and likes spy thrillers and horror movies. He likes trying to ascertain the odds of a certain team winning the games Hank watches. Hank likes to watch him pout when he’s wrong.  

 

It’s calm. Hank feels a peace he never thought he could have. He watches as the sapling in the garden inches up towards the sky day by day. At the same time he watches Connor become so much more than human.  

 

_Family_ , Hank thinks. It’s been a long time since he’s had one.  

 

And Connor fills that role perfectly. He sits at the table in the mornings while Hank stands in his usual place by the window, waiting for his bread to finish toasting while he enjoys his coffee. Connor scrolls absently through Hank’s data pad because he prefers that to his own database these days. Database is for work, when time is short. Home is for leisure.  

 

“Oh,” Connor says with a lilt of interest hitching his tone. “Marie Frasier has married her co-star from  _Total_ _Crime._ I didn’t even know they were dating.” 

 

Hank hums interestedly in response, turning round to answer.  

 

He almost drops his coffee.  

 

Because Connor is sitting at the kitchen table in boxers and a large shirt he stole of Hank despite the legitimate pair of pajamas he actually owns now. His hair is adorable messy from sleep, or his stasis equivalent, and his eyes are soft and calm. He looks for all the world like a handsome young man bright-eyed in the morning light than shines off his pale skin.  

 

And Hank understands. He finally understands what this is.  

 

He puts his coffee down on the sideboard and steps over to the table, placing a palm on the surface as he leans down. Connor lowers the data pad and looks up automatically as Hank enters his personal space. His LED spins a slow gold and then Hank’s lips meet his and Hank can no longer see the colour.  

 

The data pad clatters to the table top as Connor’s hands come up to cup Hank’s face so softly it makes Hank’s heart ache. The gentle but eager way he leans up into the kiss, seeking more but always careful. Hank’s other hand slides into those impossibly soft sleep-tousled curls.  

 

It’s bliss. Pure and simple.  

 

It’s love.  

 

 

 

 

  


End file.
